Trapped on the Border

Of course, I can only travel within the United States and, for identification, when I fly I use a valid passport that was issued by my native country, the Philippines. But each flight is a gamble. My passport lacks a visa. If TSA agents discover this, they can contact CBP, which, in turn, can detain me. But so far, I haven’t had any problems, either because I look the way I do (“You’re not brown and you don’t look like a Jose Antonio Vargas,” an immigration advocate once told me), or talk the way I do—or because, as a security agent at John F. Kennedy International Airport who recognized me said without a hint of irony, “You seem so American.”

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I might not be so lucky here in the valley. I am not sure if my passport will be enough to let me fly out of McAllen-Miller International Airport, and I am not sure if my visibility will continue to protect me—not here, not at the border.

“So you’re in the same boat as I am,” Tania told me last night during a vigil across the street from the shelter. The vigil was organized by immigrant youth from the valley and held in honor of the refugee children.

Tania was born in Mexico, and she and her family moved 45 minutes north to the United States when she was 14. For years, she had a tourist visa that allowed her to travel back and forth between the two countries. But the visa expired. She can’t get other visas, and though she grew up in the United States and considers Texas to be her home, she’s undocumented. Even though she graduated from University of Texas-Pan American and has two master’s degrees, she is trapped, literally and figuratively, her life in limbo, her dreams on hold. She’s 28. Like many undocumented Mexicans who live near the Texas-Mexico border, she can’t return from Mexico if she goes, and she can’t travel outside of a 45-mile radius in her home in Texas.

“When I saw you arrive [this morning], I was like, ‘He’s here, this is real,’” Tania told me.

“You didn’t think I was going to show up?” I asked.

“It all happened so fast, organizing this vigil,” Tania replied.

I told her I didn’t think twice about visiting the Texas border. But I didn’t know what I was getting myself into and knew nothing about life as undocumented in a border town in Texas, where checkpoints and border patrol agents are parts of everyday life. I’ve been flying everywhere across the country—what would make this trip different?

As Tania and I sat together in a circle holding unlit candles, a crowd of about 30 people—mostly undocumented youth, a few citizen allies—started chanting something in Spanish, a language I don’t speak. Her head on my shoulder, with tears in our eyes, she translated the chant for me:

“No me digas illegal”/Don’t call me illegal

“Porque eso no lo soy”/Because I am not

“llegal son sus leyes”/Illegal are your laws

“Y por eso no me voy”/And that’s why I’m not leaving

Jose Antonio Vargas, director of “Documented,” is the founder of DefineAmerican.com.